


Good Samaritan

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, THRUSH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 03:18:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18908443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Once Upon a Time challenge (10 March 2019).Prompt: Illya Kuryakin had often prophesied that his partner's wandering eye would lead to trouble for someone. That prophecy had finally come true for himself.





	Good Samaritan

That wasn’t a man? … surely not? Sitting by the side of the road? …  in _this_ weather? I stopped the car and looked back. He hadn’t moved. He was slumped over, his head hanging. Was he all right? … obviously not… no overcoat, either…  But I was on my own. It’s not safe to pick up strangers, especially men and especially not on unfrequented roads. But from what I could see, this one looked very sick. Oh, what the hell! I’d have to find out… good Samaritan and all that. Can’t pass by on the other side.

<><><><><> 

… a car …  … passing … relief … disappointment …?

… car reversing …  couldn’t move… something holding his leg … might look like part of the landscape … hope for the best.

Gentle hands, a gentle voice… A gasp of dismay. Someone kneeling beside him asking something.

<><><><><> 

The man was wet through, his hair plastered to his scalp; he shrank when I touched him. I crouched down to talk to his bent head and saw the chain round his ankle. I couldn’t believe it: he was chained to the pole at the side of the road. Who would do such a thing? Had someone left him to die? “What’s happened?” I said. He didn’t seem to understand, then I saw that there was blood as well as rain darkening his hair. “Just a minute,” I said, “I think I’ve got something to free you with.”

He moved at last, caught my hand. “Please… free...” he said.

<> 

A hand… squeezing his.

“… do what I can…” he heard.

<> 

I persuaded him to let go of my hand and went to the trunk to find the tool box. I was pretty sure it would contain a hammer and chisel. Yes…

The rain was the soaking kind and it was cold – _he_ was cold – he was a candidate for pneumonia, so the sooner he was free and out of the rain the better. Crouched beside him again, I tried to force a link in the chain. Try as I might, I couldn’t bend, let alone break it. I looked at the cuff round his ankle to see if there was a weak spot, and tried there. It forced the cuff into his skin – he didn’t cry out, just sucked in a sudden breath. “I need you to help me,” I said to him – because, if he had any strength at all, between us we might break the chain. I looked up into his face and saw him blink, trying to understand. I showed him what I wanted. “Look, if you hold this like this… and I pull here…”

A gleam of intelligence appeared in his eyes and he took the chisel. His hands were so much bigger than mine and even brought as low as he seemed to be, he must have had enormous strength because the link finally broke allowing me to release it and him. The effort cost him what strength he had left and he fell against me. Not a tall man, not very big at all, but too heavy for me to hold or lift.

<> 

“… try to stand… got to get you into the car…” her voice said. A woman. Kind.

 “… keeping trying! There… lean on me.”

A slim shoulder under his arm gave him support to rise. He tried again, grunting with the effort.

<><><><><> 

“Mmmm,” murmured Napoleon, lying back watching his date undress, “There’s something about clandestine love-making that puts a touch of icing on the cake.”

“And you’d like a cherry, no doubt…?”

“Come here, Agent Harris.”

… …

“Some cherry… some cake… “

<> 

His companion sat up, fluffing her hair. “Look at the time! I have to be on duty soon.”

“I’d better get back, too. My partner will have something to say otherwise, and his bark is worse than my chief’s bite.”

“Waiting for you, is he?”

“He was in a hurry to see Waverly just now – something about a pick-up,” Napoleon said, pulling on his clothes. “He’ll probably be late back – so I may be safe,” he added.

“Oh? Where was he going?”

“Can’t tell you that, Sandra. If Waverly found out, never mind Illya… “

“Oh, come _on_ , Napoleon, we’re on the same side these days, CIA and UNCLE.”

<><><><><> 

Lean on me, I said to him, and lean he did – he couldn’t stand on his own. We staggered to the back of the car and I sat him on the seat then went round to the other side and tried to drag him further so that he was lying down. He really shouldn’t keep those wet clothes on… I undid all the buttons I could see, and tried to rub his skin dry before laying the blanket over him hoping it would have some warming effect. Then I climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

They were waiting for me when I pulled up in the driveway and seeing me beckoning, my husband and my son both came running, thinking I might be ill or something.

“It’s not me,” I said. “See, in the back. I found him. Help me get him inside.”

They carried him in between them – my son is only young, but he’s going to be big like his father – and up the stairs. I told them what to do and while they got his wet clothes off, I went down to heat soup: it would warm him from inside. When I returned, they had dried him and dressed him in a pair of my son’s pyjamas and put him in the spare bed, well wrapped up. “What’s with the chain on his leg?” said my husband and stared when I told him how I’d found our strange guest.

He hadn’t said a word while they undressed him – helpless and unresponsive, they said. But he was conscious and aware, his eyes squinting muzzily at us.

“Sit him up, boys, put something round his shoulders. He needs to drink this,” I said. “Then go call the doctor, Jack. I’m afraid of pneumonia – he’s so cold... He’s not shivering? No, he isn’t, that’s why I’m worried.”

<><> 

Softer voice. The woman again. “Drink this, sweetheart, it’ll warm you up.”

“…kind… thanks,” he managed to say as she fed him hot soup.

Shivering suddenly… cold. Warm arms around him, hugging him to a warm body.

“We’ll get you warm soon, honey.”

<><> 

My son Joe and I held him between us, one either side, hearing his teeth chatter.

“Will he be all right, Mom?”

“I hope so, Joe. I hope so.”

“Dad said he’d get the chain off. Who _did_ that? Did he escape from jail or something?”

“If he’d escaped from jail, we wouldn’t even know. He’d have been free, not chained to a pole. He’ll tell us when he can.”

“Napoleon… tell Napoleon,” said our guest suddenly.

Joe and I looked at each other. Had he gone mad? I didn’t like to tell him that Napoleon had been dead for nearly a hundred and fifty years. “Tell Napoleon,” he repeated.

“Which Napoleon?” I ventured.

“Solo,” he said. “Napoleon Solo. UNCLE.”

“His uncle?” said Joe.

The intense shuddering was calming into a gentle shivering, the chattering teeth, too, were not quite so violent; it meant he could speak more clearly. “U.N.C.L.E.,” he said.

“Mom, we know how it’s spelled…” whispered Joe.

But now I was thinking hard. “I know what he means, Joe. I’ve heard of it. It’s something to do with law enforcement.”

The man raised his head from her shoulder. “New York,” he said clearly and dropped his head again.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Kuryakin… Illya Kuryakin.”

<><> 

The doctor came eventually.  “I think he’ll be all right, now” he said after patching up the wound on his head. “He’ll probably sleep. Can you keep an eye on him tonight, Mrs Dean?” he said, “In case he develops a fever.”

“Sure. We’ll do that.”

“Call me in the morning unless things get bad,” the doctor said as he left.

We looked down at our guest, now sleeping. His hair, no longer wet and dark, was dry now and surprisingly fair. What did he say his name was? I couldn’t remember… a funny name.

“Are we going to call this Napoleon person?” said Joe.

“If we can find out where to call, yes, we must. Did you look through his pockets?”

“We didn’t like to.”

The man’s jacket was draped wetly over a chair. I picked it up gingerly and felt for the inside pocket. It was empty, as were all his pockets. There was a dime at the bottom of one, but that was all. Somebody had missed that.

“I’ll get your Dad – are you OK to stay with him for a while? He’s only sleeping,” I said to Joe, who nodded nervously. “I’m going to see if I can find a number for this organisation.”

<><> 

Hoping the organisation’s switchboard was still operating, I called the number. A woman answered immediately. Someone would come, they would send medics.

I put the phone down. What had the woman on the switchboard had called him? Illya – that was it. Joe was fascinated. “Mom… why’ve they got such funny names?”

When I suggested, half-jokingly, that maybe they were aliases for their work, he went away to think up a suitable alias for himself and I anticipated breakfast with Erik Bloodaxe or Genghis Khan.

<><><><> 

Waverly had promised to be home early and summoned his Chief Enforcement Agent as soon as he was alerted to his arrival. Solo had looked in vain for his partner and was surprised to see his chief preparing to leave. “Illya not back yet? I can’t find him,” he said.

“No – that’s why I have sent for you. He has been missing for some hours.”

“What’s happened?”

“Mr Kuryakin went to pick up those smuggled Russian documents but hasn’t arrived back,” Waverly said. “Fortunately, or rather, unfortunately, our friends in the CIA, were trying to make up for past failures of intelligence, and followed him. They saw him ambushed and failed to intervene…”

He was interrupted by the telephone.

“Mr Waverly? Sorry to trouble you – I think you should take this call,” the young woman on the switchboard said.

Waverly listened, gave a sigh and put his overcoat and briefcase down and removed his hat. Napoleon heard enough of Waverly’s side of the conversation to put two and two together.

“Is he all right?”

“Alive and in one piece,” Waverly assured him. “He nevertheless seems to need medical care – I’ll despatch medics but you’d better go and find him _and_ those documents, too.”

Solo looked up from the address Waverly handed him and said, “Don’t wait, sir. Weren’t you on your way home? I’ll call you when I’ve found him.”

It was unsettling to drive back along the route he had taken earlier. A recent conversation nagged at him worryingly.

<><><><><> 

 

Illya’s sleep was restless and he sweated and mumbled incomprehensibly. We didn’t like to leave him, so I sent Joe to bed and we took it in turns, Jack and I, to sit with him.

There was knock at the door after midnight. Jack was downstairs making coffee. I went to the bedroom door and listened. When I glanced round to see if Illya had been disturbed by it, his eyes were open, his face flushed and his body rigid. I put my finger to my lips and he relaxed.

Someone was coming up the stairs. I peeped out – it was only Jack. “There’s something funny going on. Did you know that the CIA go around with the police?”

I stared. “What did they say they wanted?”

“Said they were looking for a Russian spy.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Nothing. I didn’t like their attitude. I just said we’d been watching TV all evening, hadn’t heard a thing.”

Illya started to cough. He was up on his elbow trying to hear us. “Have they gone?” he said hoarsely.

Jack sat down beside him and suggested he lie down again. “They’ve gone,” he said. “I told them nothing, but is it you they’re looking for? _Are_ you a Russian spy?” he said, just a little stiffly.

“Jack!”

Illya grimaced and said weakly, “You could call it that. I _am_ Russian, but we prefer to call ourselves enforcement agents.”

“It’s OK, Jack,” I said. “Remember? They know him at UNCLE, they’ve been looking for him. Someone’s on their way.”

“Napoleon?” said Illya hopefully.

“The man I spoke to didn’t say who, just he would send an agent and a medical team.”

Illya looked relieved.

Jack said, “Who was it left you chained up and why is the CIA looking for you if you work for a law enforcement agency?”

“They probably want something I had when I was followed and didn’t – or couldn’t – stop the people who ambushed me.” He coughed. “Unfortunately, they see UNCLE as competition and often work against us.”

“But you in particular?”

“The CIA has never reconciled itself to my employment in the United States.”

“McCarthyism lives, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“How come they’re working with the police?”

Illya lay back. “There is no legal oversight when they undertake covert operations with them,” he said, and started coughing again.

“Jack, we should leave him to sleep. He shouldn’t be talking.”

And indeed, Illya’s temperature had risen again and his cough was worse.

<><><><><> 

Police were stopping drivers on roads into the town. Napoleon wound down his window when his turn came and a face he knew loomed up.

“Well, well, Mr Solo! And what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“Ah, hi. Jonas Blacker, isn’t it? Who’s helping whom? You or the police?” Napoleon said, avoiding the question. “What’s going on?”

The CIA man smiling guilelessly, avoided Napoleon’s question and said, “Going far?”

“Not particularly.”

“Know your way?”

“Oh yes… Thanks.”

They let him drive on, but he was sure they would put a tail on him and radioed for back-up just in case. Thrush must know by now that Illya had been rescued. The activity in the area would alert any Thrush agents to where he was and he’d never be found again if they found his refuge. The medics wouldn’t be much use if it were raided.

Passing the Deans’ house, he drove on a little way and parked. Jamming his hat down square, rather than at its usual jaunty angle, and hoping that it and the overcoat would be adequate disguise at this time of night, he walked back.

<><><><><> 

Illya stirred and woke. He looked straight at me and said, “There is someone outside, under the window.”

“What?” I stood up in the semi-darkness of the room and went to the window. There was a movement and, now fearful, I ran into our bedroom and woke Jack. “Get up, there’s someone outside in the back yard.”

Roused from sleep, and very unwilling, he thrust his feet irritably into slippers and went downstairs, grumbling. I stood at the top of the stairs, listening, and heard soft voices.

Jack appeared at the foot of the stairs. “Is our friend awake?” he said.

Another man, tall and dark, appeared beside him. “I’m Napoleon Solo,” he said. “Can I come up?”

I went down. “Do you have some ID?” I said, holding out my hand.

The man turned to Jack with raised eyebrows. “Your wife is the naturally suspicious type, I see,” he said. “That’s good. But come now, Mrs Dean, Illya’s my friend. He’ll know me – that’s better than an ID.”

“Don’t you have any ID, Mr Solo? That seems strange.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I came away in such a rush I must have left it behind. How about I describe my friend? His name is Illya Kuryakin. He’s thirty-three years old, blond, blue eyes, five seven, hundred forty pounds. Will that do?”

I looked at him closely. That sounded right as far as it went. He seemed very convincing. He had a nice smile. “Okay,” I said, “follow me.”

It was dark on the upstairs landing. Mr Solo was close behind me so when I went into the spare bedroom and stopped short, he bumped into me and I felt something hard poking me in the back. “Please keep going, Mrs Dean,” he said softly and pushed me into the room.

The bed was empty.

“He’s gone!” I said.

“Where is he?” Solo’s voice had hardened.

“He was here a minute ago. He’s very sick.”

“Well, you won’t mind if I have a look around, will you?”

Jack hadn’t followed us immediately but now stood in the doorway, blocking the way. “Napoleon Solo’s an unusual name,” he said, apparently curious all of a sudden, “is it your real name?”

“Never mind that now, we need to find my partner,” said Solo trying to push past him.

“He heard your voice, didn’t he?” said Jack. “Why would he run away?”

“You said he was sick, maybe he’s had an attack of paranoia,” said Solo. “He gets like that sometimes.”

A small sleepy voice from behind Jack said “What’s going on?”

“Don’t you worry, honey. You two men, just go downstairs, will you – I’ll look for him. Joe needs to get his sleep.”

Mr Solo, instead of doing as I asked, walked along the landing and pushed open the other doors. Joe watched in astonishment. “What does he want?” he whispered.

“He says he’s Illya’s friend,” I whispered back.

“No, he ain’t,” was Joe’s quiet response, then raising his voice he said, “I’m going back to bed, Mom,” and darted back into his room.

Solo was taking his time going into each room to look around. When he attempted to enter Joe’s room, I protested. “No, Mr Solo. There’s no-one else in his room – for heaven’s sake – it’s very small.”

Instead of withdrawing, Solo raised his hand holding the gun he had poked in my back. “I need to search his room,” he said.

I stayed put. “No. You’ll frighten him with that gun.”

“A bit of tigress, your good lady,” Solo remarked to Jack.

“Always was,” he replied, smiling at me encouragingly from behind Solo’s back.

Solo opened Joe’s door and switched the light on. I followed him in angrily as Joe sat up. “Mom!” he screeched, seeing the gun.

I went to him and sat down with him. “It’s OK, sweetheart. He won’t hurt you.” I turned to Solo and gestured around the small room. “See, there’s nowhere for a man to hide.”

Solo looked at the bed. “No-one could get under this bed,” I said, watching him. “It’s too low and all Joe’s toys are under it.”

“They’re not _toys_ , Mom,” Joe whispered as Solo crouched down and tried to see. But there was clearly no space for a man under there.

Solo rose. “He must have got out,” he said and left the room. Jack followed him as he ran down the stairs and out of the front door, which Jack shut and locked.

“We’d better call UNCLE,” he said.

<><><><><> 

Winded, Illya lay for a moment under Joe’s window, then got to his feet. Wrapped in a blanket, he limped to the gate and out into the road where he tried to avoid the street lighting by hugging the bushes along the side.

Gasping to get breath into his congested lungs, he leaned against a tree and closed his eyes.

“Need some help, Mr Kuryakin?” said a voice.

Another woman – where did they all come from? This one seemed to know him. He opened his eyes. “Who are _you_?”

“Mr Kuryakin, you know me, don’t you? Napoleon does.”

“Do I?... Does he?”

“Sandra Harris, CIA. At your service – looks like you need it.”

“Is this a coincidence,” he croaked, “or were you looking for me?”

“I _was_ looking out for you,” she acknowledged. “I’m afraid someone followed us when we were following _you_ this afternoon – so tonight we followed Napoleon, but he seems to have disappeared.”

“Why is everyone following me?”

“We just need those documents you were carrying, so we acted on information received.” She paused and said, as if concealing a laugh, “from a very reliable source.”

“Who? What documents?”

“No names, no pack drill. And you know what documents.”

“If _you_ know so much, why didn’t you help, then?”

“We lost you. I don’t know who abducted you or what they did to you – but where are the documents now?”

But Illya was sinking. She heard footsteps approaching, and a voice saying, “Illya!” then, “Sandra? What are _you_ doing here?”

Illya opened his eyes again to find a strange shape silhouetted against the light and realised it wasn’t a man’s head but a man’s head in a very odd hat. The man said, “Are you OK?”

“Napoleon…?”

“In person. Hey, hold up, partner.”

Illya began to cough helplessly and, touching his brow, Napoleon found that he was burning hot and that his feet were bare. “Hey, buddy, looks like we need to get you to hospital. What are you doing out here?”

“Thrush. Had to get away… jumped out. Family… need protection,” Illya said between gasps, leaning on his shoulder.

What anyone else might have found mystifying, was clear enough to Napoleon who said, “The Deans called us. I’ll go see them when the medics arrive – they should be here any minute along with Section Three agents.”

“What is that on your head?” said Illya, focussing on another mystery.

Napoleon pulled off the hat, so uncomfortably pulled down round his ears. “My disguise.”

Illya snorted. “As what? A peeping Tom?”

Sandra laughed, which reminded him that she was there. He looked suspiciously at her and then at Napoleon, “Are you her reliable source?”

She and Napoleon both started to speak when a hard voice said from behind them, “OK, drop your weapons where I can see them.”

The Thrush agent watched as the weapons were thrown into the light. Unmindful of Kuryakin’s potential even sick and drooping as he seemed, he was taken unawares when Illya threw himself against him. They fell to the ground with Illya’s body on top trapping his gun hand. There was a report as the gun went off.

For a horrified moment, the disarmed agents saw the two men lying still, and then the Thrush agent screamed. Illya rolled off him as the man clutched his thigh in agony. “That is why you need to keep the safety catch on …it’s basic training,” Illya said to him, wagging a finger, as Napoleon helped him to stand.

At that moment, the lights of a vehicle lit the scene. The medical team saw them and pulled up.

<><><><><> 

“He climbed out my window, Mom. I saw him escape along the road.”

“Oh, Joe, and you let him? He was so sick.”

“He said that man wasn’t Napoleon Thingy.”

Jack had joined us. “What now?” he said.

“Couldn’t you follow that man and see if you can stop him?”

“Myra, he’s armed. It’s too dangerous to get involved with these people.”

“But Illya could be killed… and I’m sure he’s got pneumonia.”

“So could I be killed …He’s survived much worse, judging by some of the scars we saw on him.”

“Oh, you men,” I snapped. “ _I’m_ going, then.”

“No Myra, wait.” “No, Mom!” And they caught my hands.

Stymied, I said, “I hope his friend will be in time, then. What happened to that coffee?”

“Can I have a drink, too?” Joe said hopefully, and seemed slightly surprised when no-one said no.

We all went downstairs to the kitchen and as we sat around the table not looking at each other, we heard a car door being opened and quietly closed. Someone tapped at the door.

“Who is it?” said Jack, not opening it.

“Would you believe, the _real_ Napoleon Solo?” said a new voice.

“Put your ID through the letterbox,” said Jack.

A yellow ID card was poked through. Jack held it up, read it and opened the door.

“I’m sorry to call so late,” said the real Napoleon Solo when he came in, “your lights were on, so I thought I’d better come to check on you – and to thank you for looking after my partner.” He shook hands with us all, including Joe. “You were a great help to him, Joe,” he said.

“Is he going to be all right?”

“I think so, son. He’s on his way to hospital now.”

“What about the other Napoleon Solo?” I asked.

“Who? Oh, him. He’s on his way to hospital too. He managed to shoot himself in the leg.”

“Why did they leave Illya to die?”

“They thought they’d get something out of him when they came back for him – but you found him first, I’m glad to say.”

<><><><><> 

The hospital had put Illya in an oxygen tent to help his laboured breathing and when he woke the following morning, he found Napoleon waiting at his bedside. Napoleon reassured him about the family who had taken care of him – they had promised to visit him later – but he blushed a little at the next question.

“That CIA agent… she had been looking for me and those documents. How did she know?”

“Ah, I think I can explain…”

Illya sighed. “Don’t bother. I guessed she was one of your close acquaintances,” he said. “The documents are quite safe – neither the CIA nor Thrush have them.”

Utterly surprised, Napoleon said, “What happened? Where are they?”

“Napoleon, Thrush wouldn’t have come to look for me if they had them. Nor would the CIA. What kind of intelligence agent are you?” Illya snapped – then coughed. When the paroxysm ceased, he continued between wheezes, “Listen. After I collected the documents, I not only hadn’t lost the CIA car, but two Thrush cars appeared and I thought I’d better get rid of the documents in case of accidents, so I stopped for gas and when I went to pay, I asked the cashier to put them in his safe.”

“You did what?”

“I know him. They’ll be quite safe.”

“In his safe. Right.”

“He’s reliable. I choose my friends carefully. Unlike some.” He wheezed again and whispered, “Just go and retrieve the documents from him – I told him someone would show him their UNCLE ID. And _don’t_ tell Agent Harris! Or let her follow you!”

======================

 

 

 


End file.
